


Ways of Passing the Time [Ficlet Collection]

by noodlefrog



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Historical, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog
Summary: Unconnected ficlets and snippets that as of yet aren't part of a larger work, and a blatant excuse to play around with more time periods and relationship timelines.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 26





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter, and the fic as a whole, came about because we played a prompt fill game on the discord server. I liked what I came up with and my friends encouraged me to post, and so here we are. 
> 
> I figured I'd add a table of contents first with tags/descriptions for each part. The rating for each chapter will be included in the chapter list, and the rating for the fic as a whole will change to an E if I post anything explicit. For the most part, I'm going to keep the tags list light for the fic as a whole because each chapter will likely be very different.

### Chapter List

_All chapters will, unless otherwise noted, primarily focus on the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley._

**1: Table of Contents (G)**

**2: Marshmallow (M)**  


> Implied Sexual Content, Implied Oral Sex, Historical--Ancient Egypt, Pre-Arrangement, Post-Coital, Crowley still goes by "Crawly", Food as a Love Language, Hereditary Enemies With Benefits

**3: Boots (T)**  


> (Vaguely) Implied Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, South Downs Cottage, Silly, Fluff and Humor, Ever So Slightly Cracky, Crowley was Presumably Wearing Shoes


	2. Marshmallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly is sore the morning after, and Aziraphale introduces him to something new.
> 
> (Implied Sexual Content, Implied Oral Sex, Historical--Ancient Egypt, Pre-Arrangement, Post-Coital, Crowley still goes by "Crawly", Food as a Love Language, Hereditary Enemies With Benefits)

**Egypt, 2000 B.C.**

Crawly came to consciousness slowly, basking in the heat of the desert sun and the warmth of the body still laying in the bed beside him.

_Good,_ he thought, keeping his eyes closed in case this was a dream, _he didn't leave._ Well, it would have been a bit silly if Aziraphale left, considering that this was his his house and his bed. _He didn't kick me out,_ he amended.

He felt lazy and boneless, and if it weren't for the distinct feeling of sheets tangled around his legs he would have wondered if he had accidentally assumed his snake form while he'd slept. There was a pleasant ache in his throat, a souvenir from the night before, and he was hesitant to miracle it away. Crawly's human-like form had several advantages over the standard model—no gag reflex, for one, and the option to unhinge his jaw had certainly come in handy, not to mention the weird things he could do with his forked tongue... but even still, the Principality's thwarting of his infernal wiles had been rather _enthusiastic_ , and even his demonic form had limits. Not that he minded, of course. It felt good to have something tangible to remind him it had been real.

"Are you awake?" Aziraphale asked, the quiet scratching of his stylus pausing. Crawly felt the rumble of his voice against his back where their bodies touched.

He rolled over and fixed the angel with a bleary, snake-eyed stare. "M'by, but s'posssible I'm still asleep." The words came out rough and faintly croaky, and he smacked his lips together as he noticed the lingering taste of sleep in his mouth.

The angel laughed. "You should drink some water. You sound like you slept with your mouth open."

A lazy, satisfied smile crept across Crawly's face. He touched his throat with his fingers and said, "Nah. You were there, angel. S'like you don't even remember."

Aziraphale first looked confused, and then concern clouded his face as he looked down at the demon in his bed. "Oh," he breathed, "Oh dear. Oh, I hurt you. Crawly, I'm so sorry, let me—"

Crawly shooed away the hand that the angel lifted to snap. "It's a sore throat, s'not like it'll kill me." Aziraphale did not look convinced, and Crawly stared straight up at the ceiling to keep from seeing his face when he spoke again. "I kind of... like it, like this."

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, as though he was processing Crawly's words. Then, all at once, he was slipping out of bed and bustling around with something on a table at the other end of the room. Crawly watched him with trepidation—this was the longest he'd been allowed to stay after one of their trysts, and he knew that the request for him to leave would be immanent.

He came back with something in his hands. "Eat with me? Before you go?"

_There it was._ As his stomach dropped, he let his gaze wander over the food Aziraphale had brought back with him to the bedside. Two lumps of something pale and powdery, some kind of pastry, maybe? Whatever they were, Crawly's forked tongue could taste them on the air, faintly sweet and floral.

"What are those?"

"Marshmallows!" Aziraphale said proudly, offering one. Crawly took it between his fingers. It was light and squishy, and dry against his skin. "They're good for sore throats."

Crawly groaned. "I said it was fine, you don't have to play doctor, Aziraphale." He tried to hand it back, but the angel was distracted by his own morsel. Crawly watched him chew and swallow, watched him lick the taste from his fingers... his already raw throat felt parched and hot like the sands outside. He popped his own marshmallow in his mouth without further complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing started because of a prompt fill thing with friends and I joked about how I was likely to treat the prompt "Marshmallow" with too much research into the medicinal origins of the marshmallow plant and its early confectionery history. As it turns out, I did that exact thing and also made it a little horny, as a treat.
> 
> Marshmallows (the food) were invented around 2000 BC in ancient Egypt, and were made individually using the root of the medicinal marshmallow plant and honey.


	3. Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While they were packing up to move, Crowley had teased Aziraphale about how much stuff he was bringing. Now that they're settling into their new cottage together, Aziraphale is looking forward to returning that teasing.
> 
> (Vaguely Implied Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, South Downs Cottage, Silly, Fluff and Humor, Ever So Slightly Cracky, Crowley was Presumably Wearing Shoes)

As any human could tell you, moving house is a hassle. It should be easier for a pair of immortal entities with the ability to shape reality to their will, and yet, that age-old human saying held as true for Aziraphale and Crowley as it did for any mortal: _“You never know how much stuff you own until you have to pack it all up.”_

Or, at least, it was true for Aziraphale. Over the course of his many centuries on Earth, the angel had developed quite a collection of... well, of a great many things, actually. Books came to mind, as they seemed to like to divide like bacteria to cover every surface of the bookshop… and much of Crowley’s flat, once he started visiting more often, and now their shared cottage. The misprint bibles, specifically, were a point of pride—kept, of course, in a glass-fronted case ever since that unfortunate incident in the 1970s, during which the combination of Crowley's difficult relationship with his leg joints, heightened state of inebriation, and needlessly tall platform shoes resulted in a burn mark in the middle of his forehead the exact shape of the corner of one of Aziraphale's holy texts. The mistakes inside had made the books no less blessed, because of course, She'd never said _Thou shalt not make typographical errors._

Aziraphale’s clothes, too, had been brought over to their new home in abundance. It wasn't that he was a _hoarder_. No. He was an angel, built to love and cherish all things great and small. It wasn't in his nature to toss things away after they'd outgrown their use, no matter how many times Crowley insisted jodhpurs were never coming back in style and hadn't actually ever _been_ in style. The point was, his clothes and shoes had all been made by human hands, and it seemed so very unkind to discard their hard work. Each garment had been made with care and attention and had served Aziraphale admirably during their times to help him blend in with the humans of a particular era and culture.

Plus, he had developed an emotional attachment to some of them, like the heels he'd worn that day in Paris when he'd been rescued. Even though he'd been persuaded to part with the clothes he'd been arrested in, Aziraphale hadn't been able to bear to let those shoes go—he needed a memento of the day, and so he'd discreetly miracled them back to his then-empty bookshop in London after swapping clothes with the executioner. The boots he manifested for himself to wear to lunch with Crowley were comfortable enough, but he'd let them fade from reality after he returned home.

_Perfectly reasonable behavior. Not something a hoarder would do._

That was Crowley's problem, of course. The demon had always been invested in fashion, but he never took the time to cherish anything. His clothes were gone as soon as he took them off for the day, and he manifested new ones in the morning. Nothing made by hand, nothing special. He couldn't _understand_ why Aziraphale cared so much about his clothes, and so that's why his teasing had been relentless in the two-month lead-up to their moving in together.

 _“It would be so much faster if you packed it by miracle, angel,”_ he'd say as he watched Aziraphale fold each stocking with care.

 _“I don't know why you're bringing half that stuff,”_ he'd say, coffee in hand, as he watched Aziraphale hold up garments to his body in the mirror and remember the old times. _“Jodhpurs were hideous the first time around, I don't see why you hang onto them.”_

 _“Angel, we're going to run out of space at this rate,”_ he'd say as he watched the movers carry box after box out of the flat above the bookshop. _“Unless you're planning to make our cottage bigger on the inside like you did the moving van."_

It was all good-natured teasing of course. Crowley would never _really_ discourage Aziraphale from keeping the things he was attached to. But it was true, Crowley had packed almost nothing compared to the mountain of boxes Aziraphale had brought: a few of his most prized plants (the rest replanted in parks in the dead of night), a handful of illustrated books (all originally gifts from his angel, of course), a pair of statues (one of which he had _promised_ would stay in their bedroom and out of sight of any guests), and one gaudy throne. No clothes at all, except the ones he wore to drive them out of London.

But Aziraphale had his suspicions, and he'd been looking forward to the chance to prove them right and get the opportunity to tease Crowley in return for his hypocrisy. The thing was, all of Crowley's _clothes_ were constructed by miracle, but Aziraphale had noticed over time that his _shoes_ were all real physical objects. And he had so many of them! Boots, heels, flats, sandals, the odd pair of trainers, all in his trademark aesthetic. Aziraphale didn't know where the silly demon kept them in that bare flat of his, but he knew they had to be _somewhere_. He couldn’t imagine Crowley taking the time to find real, physical shoes he liked wearing and then just abandoning them once they moved. Aziraphale knew that once they were in their cottage together, he'd be able to see where he hid them, and he'd get to tease Crowley in turn for having a sentimental collection of his own.

Always consummately tidy, Crowley sent all his shoes somewhere when he took them off. At least, that was what Aziraphale figured must happen. He’d never found them by the door, or on the floor beside the bed. Or somewhere along the stairs heading up to the bedroom, as often happened with Aziraphale’s brogues.

True, he’d never really seen Crowley take his shoes off, but that was to be expected. In the days before their relationship changed, he was almost always rather buttoned-up when they were together, even when they were four bottles of Talisker down and wailing some song they’d last heard in Assyria, because they both knew there had to be that line between them. And it was more than just trying to uphold those blasted boundaries. Crowley never took his shoes off in the bookshop because he always had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. And now, well. Now that things were different, whenever Crowley was feeling relaxed enough to unbutton even a little bit… well, they both usually ended up unbuttoning rather a lot, and Aziraphale’s attention was somewhere else besides the demon’s feet.

In the first days after they moved into their cottage, Aziraphale forgot that he’d been interested in finding material he could use to tease his husband. He’d been rather busy. After all, there were a lot of horizontal surfaces in their home that needed to be Christened—or _profaned_ , as Crowley liked to call it—as well as a few vertical and diagonal surfaces, and on one particular occasion, some empty air about four feet off of their bedroom floor.

About a week in, though, they decided they wanted to pop into the village to get a bite to eat and Crowley had resumed his gentle teasing as Aziraphale dithered in front of a hanger full of bow ties, reminding the angel that many of those ties predated Earth’s oldest living humans. Aziraphale was immediately reminded that he now had the opportunity to pay some of that back, and he cast a surreptitious glance around their bedroom for the secret cache of shoes he knew his husband must have tucked away. Finding nothing, he tied his tie and resolved to revisit the issue after lunch.

When they returned home that afternoon, he watched Crowley walk inside ahead of him and sprawl out on the sofa with his feet kicked up over the back of it.

 _I love him,_ Aziraphale thought. _The absolute menace._

He was still wearing his boots, low-heeled snakeskin ones that Aziraphale had seen him wear many times before. It was then that the angel had an idea.

“Crowley, love,” He began, sliding onto the couch beside him, “I wondered if you might like a massage.”

The demon raised his head in interest. “Never gonna say no to your hands on me, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled and lifted one of Crowley’s booted feet into his lap. “I wondered if I might begin with these?”

Crowley stretched and settled back into the cushion, looking for all the world like a satisfied cat. “‘Course, go for it.”

As he began to move to tuck his fingers under the tops of Crowley’s boots to slide them off, what Aziraphale had planned to say was, _“Let me take these off for you, dearest. Where should I put them?”_

He ended up saying nothing at all, because at just that moment he saw the surface of those snakeskin boots—his _husband’s_ snake skin, specifically, he realized—ripple under his fingers and sink back into Crowley’s feet.

 _Well,_ he thought, _that explains why I never saw them lying about._

It wouldn’t do to tease Crowley about this, or even really to say anything at all about it. The poor demon could be so self-conscious about his more serpentine traits and they’d been working on him not being embarrassed those times when he accidentally hissed. There wasn’t even anything about it _to_ tease, really. Now that he’d seen the trick at work, Aziraphale actually found it quite darling, and so very Crowley.

Besides, if he wanted to tease his husband about something, he wasn’t exactly short of options. When the mood next struck him, Aziraphale knew he could easily find a way to gently wind Crowley up, and they’d both end up laughing.

In the meantime, though, all Aziraphale wanted to do was press his thumbs into the arch of his husband’s now scale-free feet and pamper him until he was a vaguely demon-shaped puddle on their sofa. So, that’s exactly what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [CynSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn) for spontaneously prompting me with the word "boots" today and helping me getting back into the writing swing after being unable to write all weekend. I decided to go very fluffy and silly with this because all the other stuff I'm writing at the moment is leaning in a slightly more angsty direction. 🙃

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I just wanted a space on Ao3 to dick around and post the kind of things that don't make it into any of my larger works. I'm not expecting this to have any semblance of an update schedule, or any context whatsoever. I'm just here to noodle. 
> 
> As always, feel free to say hi either here in the comments or message me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/noodlefrog-omens). I'm too social for my own good.
> 
> Oh and since this started with a prompt fill thing, feel free to drop me prompts for short lil' scenes. There's no guarantee when or if I'll be able to get to them, but uh... toss a ~~coin~~ prompt to your author.


End file.
